


What You Fancy

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a hungry hungry boy, Established Relationship, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, PWP, Pure Smut, Rimming, Rough Sex, Switching, Wings, angels and demons fucking, good old-fashioned filth, ineffable pounding, minor mention of spitting but nothing dreadful, so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 18:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: It’s dark. Too much wine has been drunk and un-drunk and Crowley is tired. He is flopped over on Aziraphale’s barely used bed, stroking his palm over the stitching of the quilt and wondering if he should take his clothes off before he passes out. He could do it with a wave of his hand, or even just a hard think, but that’s not what he wants. What he wants is… ah, yes.Crowley wants. There is nothing Aziraphale will not give him. Basically 2.5k of Crowley wanting and Aziraphale giving it to him.





	What You Fancy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).



> Written in about 2 hours for @englandwouldfalljohn, because she is the best. And for you, because we all know Crowley is a greedy Bottom. OH yes. 
> 
> Unbetaed, unedited, just flow. I’ll run back through it for SPaG and repetition later. But I’ve got to put this up now, or I… just won’t.

It’s dark. Too much wine has been drunk and un-drunk and Crowley is _tired_. He is flopped over on Aziraphale’s barely used bed, stroking his palm over the stitching of the quilt and wondering if he should take his clothes off before he passes out. He could do it with a wave of his hand, or even just a hard think, but that’s not what he wants. What he wants is… ah, yes.

“Strip me.” Crowley demands.

Aziraphale looks up from his book. He’s not going to sleep, he never does. But he’s happy to be here while Crowley gives in to that temptation. He’ll wander over later from his armchair and lie beside him on the bed, read his books, eyes straying occasionally to sweep across the demon’s face affectionately. Now though, he stays put. “Excuse me?”

“Strip me, Angel. I want to be naked. I want you to do it. Now.”

“Your manners are deplorable,” Aziraphale mutters, but gets up anyway. The angel loves him, Crowley can feel it in every second they spend together. Even the ones in which they are arguing, bickering like an old married couple, or yelling in absolute fury. There is always love. And he knows Aziraphale hears it in Crowley’s words, no matter how rude they sound.

Crowley feels his boots tugged off, and his socks and then he is unceremoniously rolled onto his back and straddled while his trouser fastenings are wrestled with. He smiles, one side of his mouth curling up slyly. He slides his palms up muscular thighs (sure, a little of it’s chub, the angel lives well, but some of it is pure, hard power and he likes both, together, as much as possible), digs his fingers in and lifts his chin for a kiss. He kicks his hips up a little, shifting Aziraphale into a better position, so he can rub up against him a little. Just because.

“Ah, I see,” Aziraphale says lightly, tapping Crowley’s demanding chin to move out of the way so he can unbutton the shirt next. “Not just stripping, but a little of something else too?”

Crowley pouts his lips while he thinks. He wriggles his arms out of his sleeves as he is undressed. He could go for a good fuck, he’d quite like to bury himself deep inside the Angel, have a good orgasm and then fall asleep. Maybe with a little cuddle too. Or perhaps a blowjob, suck him off and let the white heat of angel spunk sizzle in his throat like sherbet. He quite fancies a bit of cock, actually…

“Will you fuck me?” His mouth asks before he can stop it.

“Whenever you like,” Aziraphale hums, kissing gently at Crowley’s newly bared neck. He tips forward to free his hips and allow him to remove his own trousers. Crowley’s not wearing underwear, obviously; he’s a demon. Aziraphale settles his weight over him, miracling his own clothes away with just a thought, smiling into the sharp collarbone beneath him as Crowley rubs his hardening penis against Aziraphale’s soft hip.

They kiss, softly, slowly, affection and care brushing lips and stroking tongues softly. Crowley feels himself melting into it, heat crawling into his abdomen. His cock starts to stand, swaying with gentle tips of his hips. He loves being loved. But he wants.

“Will you fuck me hard?”

“If that’s what you fancy.”

Crowley doesn’t think he’s quite getting it. Sex is good, amazing, brilliant, an amazing invention. There’s so many different ways and sorts and types and… “I want it hard. Make it hurt. Fuck me up.”

That makes him pause. “Are you… are you sure, my dear, that you want that?”

“For G— S— for fuck’s sake, Angel, just, ugh.”

Crowley shoves Aziraphale back, off of him, wanting to roll his eyes at the flinch of hurt barely concealed on the angel’s face, but also not wanting to, because that’s what makes him who he is. Concern, worry, hurt, buried rage, affection, love, love, love. He flips himself over, pulling up onto his knees, canting his hips up and back with an almost satisfied moan as he feels his cheeks spreading to expose exactly what he wants Aziraphale to see. A line of shadow, a glimpse of darkness, cock and balls hanging down, a hidden hole asking and begging to be filled. Crowley shunts down onto his elbows, stretching his arms forward to feed his hands under the pillows, hedonistic fingers grasping at the soft fabric. His necklace swings, a light weight around his neck.

Aziraphale is still frozen, knelt behind him, palms out in a placating, hang on I need to reassess the situation, give me a second here, sort of motion. Crowley cranks his head around into an uncomfortable position to make eye contact. And thank… somebody he does, because he sees the moment Aziraphale gives in and gives out, witnesses the flare of his nostrils and the narrowing of his eyes. Those placating palms slap forwards, impacting on the flesh of Crowley’s buttocks, making his breath stutter, and pale angelic thumbs slip in to his crack, pulling him wide open.

Crowley tries to breathe. “Yes. I just. Please.” When did he get so polite?

“Oh, I _am_ going to fuck you up,” Aziraphale groans, and Crowley whines in acceptance and need. He loves when his angel swears, he treasures the moments when he loses his cool. Absolutely adores when he lets his power out and Crowley can feel it crackling in the air, fizzing in his veins. It’s addictive, his own personal heaven, or hell, or where he wants to be. Here.

“Angel,” he pleads, sinking his knees further apart. The head of his cock grazes the sheet, making him buck back in shock before pushing forwards again, searching for that sensation.

“You want it so badly, don’t you, my dear. You want to be pushed and hurt and overpowered and you’re absolutely gagging for a good hard fucking.”

“I do, I am, please.” Crowley admits, taking joy in the confession.

He closes his eyes and momentarily tries to suffocate himself in the mattress. He lets the lack of oxygen waver the edges of his consciousness, because he doesn’t actually _need_ to breathe, but he likes letting this body think it does, to cruise along that edge of panic like a high until his limbs start to tingle. He doesn’t get that far this time though, because his head whips up at a hacking noise and a delightful sting of spit splatting directly onto his sensitive hole. HOLY FUCK Aziraphale spat on him, in him and now his fingers are circling, dawdling around the rim of him, twitching at nerves and teasing.

“Put them in, put it in, oh, please Angel, please, just something.”

“Oh, my darling, I do so love hearing you beg so prettily.” Aziraphale is apparently in his element here. “I can’t believe I missed this for so long. You need it, don’t you, sweetheart? You need someone to find this dirty little want of yours, to give you what you want so so badly, I can smell it on you, the want, the urgency, the absolute…” He trails off, distracted by the way Crowley’s arse is practically sucking in the tip of his thumb. Oh, and, there it is, in it goes.

An unavoidable grunt escapes Crowley. Oh yes. There’s not quite enough slickness left from the single glob of spit and the friction is momentarily uncomfortable, but in a way he likes, a drag of skin against skin, sharp. He needs more. He gets it immediately; the thumb pulls back out and then a saliva-wet finger pushes in. Another grunt, how humiliating. He can’t seem to stop the noise leaving him, every time something pushes into him, it forces out a small vocalisation of his pleasure.

Two fingers now, thrusting in, opening him up, sensitising nerves and stroking flesh, sending sparks up in his ribcage. He’s happy, quite happy, he could be here forever like this, another 6,000 years, perhaps. He’s panting and moaning like a whore. Although, there is some sort of aching letting itself be felt, growing and spreading at that sensitive spot up behind his balls, a need for something more, just a little something. Then there is hot breath at the base of his spine, wet kisses sliding down, down, oh wow, here we go, a hot, wet tongue laving, probing and then replacing the digits. It curls, it thrusts, it strokes and then there is a sudden thrust of fingers too, joining and competing, fucking into him and searching out his prostate, which is a brilliant thing, whoever put that there. The fingers find it, he brush against it gently, not too much, not too hard, just right.

“OH holy FUCKING Angel,” Crowley positively keens, his shoulders rising and his head tipping up and back as he gasps down air.

Aziraphale pulls away from him, puts one hand on Crowley’s shoulderblade, where his dark wings are concealed and pushes him back down. It’s a heady amount of strength, coming from only four fingertips and the angular tip of a thumb, pushing him almost casually, but with enough force to flatten him back into the sheets. Crowley’s dick gives a twitch and he moans long and low, mouth hanging open, drool possibly soaking into the cotton beneath his face. That is too hot, too hot even for him.

“I’m going to fuck you now, my beloved, and you’re going to take it and love every second of it.”

“Yes, please, now please.” Words are starting to get a little muddled in his head, and these are about the only ones he can manage.

The tip of Aziraphale’s cock is blunt and slippery against him, but it doesn’t shift and shy away, it ploughs forward unforgivingly, guided and slicked by some kind of angel miracle that Crowley can’t even comprehend because his brain feels like it’s melting out of his tear ducts.

“Hard,” he gasps, “Fuck me up.”

Aziraphale is talking behind him, lilting incantations of praise as he does as he is asked. “Beautiful, my love, you are perfect, you are more than heaven, look how well you take me, you were made for me, oh yes, you are _divine_ …”

Crowley feels it, he feels divine. He feels worshipped and adored and exalted and as Aziraphale’s fingers dig in and slide down his back to grip around his bony hips. He feels more of everything. Bruises forming in the fragile tissue beneath his skin, the delicious drag of cock pulling and withdrawing from him before pounding back in. There are slaps of skin on skin, the blunt smash of flesh and bone colliding, sparks behind Crowley’s closed eyelids. _THIS_ is it, what he has needed, forever. To be pushed about and held down and fucked into the mattress. He’s lost track of the noises that are coming out of his mouth, but they start deep in his chest and force their way out. It’s sublime.

And then it is more, there is a gust of air, a familiar rustle and unfolding of feathers and a bass beat as Angel Wings thump the air and Crowley is flat against the bed, the force pushing him down, crushing his cock beneath him, pale hands striking the mattress either side of him to support the angel, the full-on _ANGEL_ fucking into him from behind.

The heat in his belly overflows, fuelled by the sweet, tight bursts of pleasure in his pelvis, coiling and uncoiling like a snake of agonising ecstasy twisting through his muscles, down his abdomen, into his balls and up and out and heat and fire and lava and he feels his control over his form sliding away, his own wings unfurling and spreading between them, his tongue curling and splitting in two in his mouth, grazing the sharp points of his fangs, black painted fingernails sharpening into talons and ripping into the bedclothes rucking up around him as he slips forwards into the headboard with every movement.

“Oh, angel, I’m, ah, Zir, uh, fff,” his grunts are pushed out of him by the furious thrusts shoving him down and forwards, burning up and sweating with the exertion of. Just. Taking. It.

“Yes, my beautiful monster, I’m here, I’m ready, let it go for me.” Aziraphale secures one hand in Crowley’s hair, tugging, pulling his head back hard enough to lift his shoulders from the bed. It hurts, it’s perfect.

Crowley does, he lets it go spectacularly, with hiccuping jerks of his limbs and a howl of pure rapture, morphing into an uncontrollable demonic roar, his cock spilling scaldingly below him, all over his belly. He feels the give of the bedding tearing beneath his fingers and the sparks in his eyes glow and grow until it’s all white and he’s on fire, possibly literally. He has felt nothing like it ever before. It’s pure euphoria, if he wasn’t a demon, he’d say it was something spiritual, maybe it is. Clenching and contracting and releasing and opening up, and then he loses the world entirely and is just floating.

***

He comes back to life, eventually, wrapped in soft floof and smelling the sour-sweetness of hot hard sex all around him. His skin is stuck with sweat to the body beside and around him. His own body aches and hurts and twitches in exhaustion. He can’t see anything except white feathers. He twitches his own wings to make sure they’re not his. Nope, his are crushed beneath him, not uncomfortably, and definitely still black, he can tell. Which means…

“Aziraphale?” He croaks.

“Hello, Crowley, darling.” Soft, wet lips caress his sore neck, sending pleasant shivers skittering down his spine.

“Sorry about that, I think I… whited out for a minute there. Did you… Was it good for you too?”

“More like ten minutes, but no bother. And that was quite easily the most enjoyable experience of my life, let me assure you. I climaxed quite wonderfully as you thrashed around in the glorious throes of your pleasure.” Aziraphale opens his wings, letting light in and Crowley watches his beautiful blue eyes adjust, sharpening and focussing. His gaze flicks over the demon’s face, searchingly, wonderingly. “Can I kiss you?”

Crowley wonders why he’s bothering to ask and uses a tired arm to pull him down. Then their mouths collide gracelessly and he feels the points of his elongated teeth dig into the inside of his own lip. Ah. Demon. But… the Aziraphale still wants to kiss him, is still letting out a small puff of pleasure when Crowley grazes a testing fang against the soft plumpness of his bottom lip. He pauses consideringly, before trailing his forked tongue gently over the scratch he has made, flicking the tips mischievously into Aziraphale’s mouth, tickling at his teeth, strokes coaxingly at both sides of his regular, singular tongue.

Aziraphale gasps, clenching his fingers in the sparse flesh around Crowley’s midriff. “Oh my, Crowley.”

Crowley grits his teeth together in a grin, wills away his tiredness and pains with a little miracle or two and rolls himself on top of his angel, kneeling tall. He opens his wings, black as night and rising behind him like they’re meant to be, stretching them out until they dust against the walls. He flicks his tongue out, tasting the air, giving a little hiss at the same time. Aziraphale looks like he’s about to faint from lust.

“I am going to _fuck you up_ ,” Crowley promises, and digs his sharp claws into the flesh of the angel’s chest. He sinks down, feeling the newly plump form of Aziraphale’s cock arching up against his arse, rubs himself forwards and back to catch the sensations for himself.

Aziraphale’s eyes roll back. “Oh, yes, please.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on twitter for further discourse [ @katnoggin](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin).
> 
> Or enable my caffeine addiction on the site we don't discuss here. Fuel my writerly soul and make my heart sing. 
> 
> Or comments and kudos make my world go round. Please and thank you.


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